In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.

In drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?
The feel of not to feel it,
When there is none to heal it
Nor numbed sense to steel it,
Was never said in rhyme.

O Prince, O chief of many throned pow’rs!
        That led th’ embattled seraphim to war!
                      (Milton, Paradise Lost)

O thou! whatever title suit thee,—
Auld Hornie, Satan, Nick, or Clootie!
Wha in yon cavern, grim an’ sootie,
     Clos’d under hatches,
Spairges about the brunstane cootie
     To scaud poor wretches!

Hear me, Auld Hangie, for a wee,
An’ let poor ****** bodies be;
I’m sure sma’ pleasure it can gie,
     E’en to a deil,
To skelp an’ scaud poor dogs like me,
     An’ hear us squeel!

Great is thy pow’r, an’ great thy fame;
Far ken’d an’ noted is thy name;
An’ tho’ yon lowin heugh’s thy hame,
     Thou travels far;
An’ faith! thou’s neither lag nor lame,
     Nor blate nor scaur.

Whyles, ranging like a roarin lion,
For prey a’ holes an’ corners tryin;
Whyles, on the strong-wing’d tempest flyin,
     Tirlin’ the kirks;
Whyles, in the human ***** pryin,
     Unseen thou lurks.

I’ve heard my rev’rend graunie say,
In lanely glens ye like to stray;
Or whare auld ruin’d castles gray
     Nod to the moon,
Ye fright the nightly wand’rer’s way
     Wi’ eldritch croon.

When twilight did my graunie summon
To say her pray’rs, douce honest woman!
Aft yont the **** she’s heard you bummin,
     Wi’ eerie drone;
Or, rustlin thro’ the boortrees comin,
     Wi’ heavy groan.

Ae dreary, windy, winter night,
The stars shot down wi’ sklentin light,
Wi’ you mysel I gat a fright,
     Ayont the lough;
Ye like a rash-buss stood in sight,
     Wi’ waving sugh.

The cudgel in my nieve did shake,
Each bristl’d hair stood like a stake,
When wi’ an eldritch, stoor “Quaick, quaick,”
     Amang the springs,
Awa ye squatter’d like a drake,
     On whistling wings.

Let warlocks grim an’ wither’d hags
Tell how wi’ you on ragweed nags
They skim the muirs an’ dizzy crags
     Wi’ wicked speed;
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues,
     Owre howket dead.

Thence, countra wives wi’ toil an’ pain
May plunge an’ plunge the kirn in vain;
For oh! the yellow treasure’s taen
     By witchin skill;
An’ dawtet, twal-pint hawkie’s gaen
     As yell’s the bill.

Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse,
On young guidmen, fond, keen, an’ croose;
When the best wark-lume i’ the house,
     By cantraip wit,
Is instant made no worth a louse,
     Just at the bit.

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord,
An’ float the jinglin icy-boord,
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord
     By your direction,
An’ nighted trav’lers are allur’d
     To their destruction.

And aft your moss-traversing spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an drunk is:
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkeys
     Delude his eyes,
Till in some miry slough he sunk is,
     Ne’er mair to rise.

When Masons’ mystic word an grip
In storms an’ tempests raise you up,
Some **** or cat your rage maun stop,
     Or, strange to tell!
The youngest brither ye *** whip
     Aff straught to hell!

Lang syne, in Eden’d bonie yard,
When youthfu’ lovers first were pair’d,
An all the soul of love they shar’d,
     The raptur’d hour,
Sweet on the fragrant flow’ry swaird,
     In shady bow’r;

Then you, ye auld snick-drawin dog!
Ye cam to Paradise incog,
And play’d on man a cursed brogue,
     (Black be your fa’!)
An gied the infant warld a shog,
     Maist ruin’d a’.

D’ye mind that day, when in a bizz,
Wi’ reeket duds an reestet gizz,
Ye did present your smoutie phiz
     Mang better folk,
An’ sklented on the man of Uz
     Your spitefu’ joke?

An’ how ye gat him i’ your thrall,
An’ brak him out o’ house and hal’,
While scabs and blotches did him gall,
     Wi’ bitter claw,
An’ lows’d his ill-tongued, wicked scaul,
     Was warst ava?

But a’ your doings to rehearse,
Your wily snares an’ fechtin fierce,
Sin’ that day Michael did you pierce,
     Down to this time,
*** ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse,
     In prose or rhyme.

An’ now, Auld Cloots, I ken ye’re thinkin,
A certain Bardie’s rantin, drinkin,
Some luckless hour will send him linkin,
     To your black pit;
But faith! he’ll turn a corner jinkin,
     An’ cheat you yet.

But fare you weel, Auld Nickie-ben!
O *** ye tak a thought an’ men’!
Ye aiblins might—I dinna ken—
     Still hae a stake:
I’m wae to think upo’ yon den,
     Ev’n for your sake!

IN a drear-nighted December,
   Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
   Their green felicity:
The north cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them;
Nor frozen thawings glue them
   From budding at the prime.

In a drear-nighted December,
   Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
   Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
   About the frozen time.

Ah! would 'twere so with many
   A gentle girl and boy!
But were there ever any
   Writhed not at passed joy?
To know the change and feel it,
When there is none to heal it,
Nor numbed sense to steal it,
   Was never said in rhyme.

My Soul through nighted halls
did stagger to be remembered
and rejoined in hollow Void.

The limps, the shackles did echo
on shadow'd floor as fire
flickered in the lamps.

The empty sea full of Ego
it's waves did crack on temple
walls and we left it behind

to defend the fanning flames.

(From a Persian Carpet)


Ash and strewments, the first moth-wings, pale
Ardour of brief evenings, on the fecund wind;
Or all a wing, less than wind,
Breath of low herbs upfloats, petal or wing,
Haunting the musk precincts of burial.
For the season of newer riches moves triumphing,
Of the evanescence of deaths. These potpourris
Earth-tinctured, jet insect-bead, cinder of bloom—
How weigh while a great summer knows increase,
Ceaselessly risen, what there entombs?—
Of candour fallen from the slight stems of Mays,
Corrupt of the rim a blue shades, pensively:
So a fatigue of wishes will young eyes.
And brightened, unpurged eyes of revery, now
Not to glance to fabulous groves again!
For now deep presence is, and binds its close,
And closes down the wreathed alleys escape of sighs.
And now rich time is weaving, hidden tree,
The fable of orient threads from bough to bough.
Old rinded wood, whose lissomeness within
Has reached from nothing to its covering
These many corymbs’ flourish!—And the green
Shells which wait amber, breathing, wrought
Towards the still trance of summer’s centering,
Motives by ravished humble fingers set,
Each in a noon of its own infinite.
And here is leant the branch and its repose
of the deep leaf to the pilgrim plume. Repose,
Inflections brilliant and mute of the voyager, light!
And here the nests, and freshet throats resume
Notes over and over found, names
For the silvery ascensions of joy. Nothing is here
But moss and its bells now of the root’s night;
But the beetle’s bower, and arc from grass to grass
For the flight in gauze. Now its fresh lair,
Grass-deep, nestles the cool eft to stir
Vague newborn limbs, and the bud’s dark winding has
Access of day. Now on the subtle noon
Time’s image, at pause with being, labours free
Of all its charge, for each in coverts laid,
Of clement kind; and everlastingly,
In some elision of bright moments is known,
Changed wide as Eden, the branch whose silence sways
Dazzle of the murmurous leaves to continual tone;
Its separations, sighing to own again
Being of the ignorant wish; and sways to sight,
Waked from it nighted, the marvelous foundlings of light;
Risen and weaving from the ceaseless root
A divine ease whispers toward fruitfulness,
While all a summer’s conscience tempts the fruit.

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To lands unimagined we must make our course,
For a tale beyond compare awaits thee there,
Of a hero this world has long forgotten.
Petrarchus was his name, warrior of renown,
Son of the king, and heir to the crown,
A warrior hailed by all the grateful land,
For great was his skill, and powerful his hand.
A legend there was in the empire of old,
Of a realm far beyond the sands of Morthros,
The Land of Paradise, full of palaces and gardens
Beyond imagination of mortal man.
The Gods of heaven in that land resided,
And wide and lofty were it's spires and towers;
That sacred home to the immortal powers
Lay across the yawning Chasm of Death.
To reach this land was Petrarchus' desire,
And fierce was his will, unquenchable his fire;
And it passed that unaided by kinsman or friend,
He travell'd forth to attain his journey's end.
A ship he made of timber strong,
And all it's cords and sails he tied;
Out into the Seas of Gloom he sail'd,
Dauntless into the jaws of the unknown.
But fate! merciless judge, had destin'd him sorrow,
And threw great hurdles along his darksome way;
Through storm and calm he sail'd into the morrow,
Meeting each trial with intrepid face.
Then before the vessel  vile Luxuria rose,
The oldest Titan, in form a Gorgon,
That mock'd at the hero and his worthless errand.
Undeterr'd, to Luxuria Petrarchus cried;
"Why com'st thou here, O fiend of the sea?
Forsake not thy lair to thus hinder me;
Learn, foul monster, my blade to fear,
For this mortal steel may end thy life so dear."
At this the Titan laugh'd, and changed her shape
Into the form of a voluptuous dame.
To the hero she spread her welcoming arms,
And he falter'd against her alluring charms.
There on the seas his mighty mind was sway'd,
And by tide of Desire a man was unmade.
O, most inglorious sight! The master turn'd to slave,
On the edge of the vessel, his hand outstretch'd,
All hold of reason relinquish'd like shackles.
That day had disslov'd Petrarchus' name
Among the thousands that fell to Lust's great spell,
And a hero's glory reduced to poor shame,
No deeds then done that this tale should tell.
But heaven beheld, and a peal of lightning
Shot forth like an unearthly ray o'er the foam,
The seething waves turn'd pallid white
In dread of the wrath of Heaven's sire.
And by the booming sound that echoed in the skies,
Petrarchus awaken'd, and casting off his spell,
He drew his blade, and Luxuria fell.
Alas! that the pestilence of her wickedness
Had ended there in that fateful hour!
But  her body's blood, as black as night,
Issuing from the **** of her bleeding neck,
Swept forth like an all-consuming cloud,
Enveloping the seas in a shadowed shroud.
'Twas the very essence of Sin, that worked in the blood,
The defilement that envenom'd the warrior's heart,
As he drew in the blackness with his heaving breath.
As the spider's venom with cunning doth pierce,
So she made frail who had been so fierce.
Like a phantom in a dream he sail'd now ahead,
Barely alive, and more than half dead,
Across the arid isles of nighted Invidius;
And came at last, a batter'd man
To the endless waste of horrid Morthros;
The first of mortal line those seas to cross,
The Chasm of Death to obtain.
And sudden in the grime a Chalice appeared,
The Goblet of Gula, whose heady draught
Makes thirst so great that pain seems naught.
Like lowly beast the warrior had become,
And casting off his sword and shining shield,
The mail that was a burden on his sweating breast,
Naked and horrible, he clawed to the Cup
And raised his thirsty lips to drink of the draught.
And suddenly a terrible tremor moved the earth,
And lo! 'twas earth no more, but abyss profound,
Black and gaping, the Chasm of Death.
For eternity of time he fell through the blackness,
Crying in craven fear, lost in nameless dread,
And came at last to the Bottom, hard and lifeless.
Ah most terrible fate, to have one's tomb
In the lightless reaches of the mouth of the earth.
And had Petrarchus ended? Had the terrible fall
Through leagues of despair destroyed him?
Nay, for this was the greatest atonement,
To be alive without purpose, to decay in darkness,
To live alone, far from life and love;
Eternally scalded by the unending coldness,
Cowering 'neath the mocking leer of Fate.
Then came a greater, more terrible awakening,
For 'twas now he saw the Legion of Undead
Glowering in the filth, a horde of blood-red eyes,
Unblinking, that knew only to fear and despise.
In that Inferno of eyes ever staring in the gloam,
The hero languish'd for what seem'd an age.
But then, heaven! thy aid was sent,
And by divine power the blackness was rent
By light, and the voice of Providence spake:
"Be bold, brave knight, for thy own sake,
Heaven did not decree the path that thou hast chosen;
Thou shalt rise where none before have risen;
Re-arm thy heart, stand up on thy feet,
Cowards are they that submit to defeat.
Turn thy eyes above! Dost thou not see?
The void thou hast created had never been!
The Chasm is only for the weak of heart,
A prison of minds that by minds was made.
Wake up thy blood, braveheart! Thou art not lost,
The prize shall be thine, though great the cost.
Pierce with sword of will the veil of night,
And behold! The world is blinded with light!"
Thus spake the Voice, and the world was restor'd,
The sands of Morthros as barren as before.
But where he had seen darkness, the hero now saw hope,
For the flame of the Gods was raging in his heart,
Relentless he walk'd through the swathe of gloom,
Petrarchus who was saved from eternal doom.
The mortal came at last to Paradise sublime,
Abode of grandeur and all things divine!
As a man whelm'd by wonder he trod
Through it's rich marble halls and ethereal gardens,
Drinking in the balmy scent of blooms
Not found in any land but where the immortals reside.
And then the mighty hall of Helios was there!
Firm as a mountain, and alight with wondrous flare!
High on the throne, above all the stately gods,
Repos'd Helios, monarch of immortals.
Emitting rays and beams of blinding power,
The refulgent king rose from his sacred seat,
And rais'd his golden sceptre, in cordial greeting
To the first wayfarer from the mortal world.
"Noble Petrarchus," said he, "across the Seas of Gloom
and the Chasm of Death thou hast made thy way
To this Hesperius, Garden of Gods.
To thee this honour eternal was given,
Thou alone by Destiny's call wert driven,
For man like to thee on this globe there is none,
Nor worthier soul to brave what thou hast done.
To wander in our blessed halls and glory at our pride,
Shall be thy just reward, if thou shalt decide.
What say'st thou, O matchless of mortals?"
But the man to whom he spoke was not the hero of old,
For He had been destroyed in the Chasm of Death;
Unfetter'd by desire, like a God in form he stood,
With wisdom beyond measure of living mortal man.
And there in the halls of Hesperius was born
Petrarchus the Prophet, Star of the Pole.
With humble grace the sage then spoke,
"Gracious is thy will, O eternal king,
Whose praises no song of man can sing;
But if thou shalt grant, benevolent sire,
One, and one only, is my chief desire.
To be given endless life, and freedom to walk
The pleasant arbours and vales of Earth,
And preach to all men the greatness of the Gods;
This indeed I deem a task of worth.
If such be thy will, the very Seas of Gloom
Shall be new-forg'd into the Seas of Glory,
And the rays of Helios shall shine out afar,
Awaking a new morn and age of Reason.
But mine is the suit; 'tis thine to fulfil."
At this the God of Day let out a booming laugh,
The first heavenly display of Mirth ever seen;
The skies were new-brighten'd by a light of joy.
"So shall it be," to the Prophet said he,
and bade him wander whither he would,
Immortal emissary, scion of righteousness,
Harbinger of the dawn and new age of Man.
His task is done. And now he reposes, ever serene,
In the heart of Night's silken shades, a luminous star
Bright and wondrous above the Pole.

It must be nearly four on this side of the road.
With a great touch of import,
Trundling through the semi-wet
And gazing at the flints refracted in sod.
A few meters across and there is succor,
There is warmth, where the earth is
Turned fresh. Very little keeps me thus
From that solid solid open door.

Still, I should be a fool to with a one
Hand cast resolve into the nighted water
Of the soul and with the other
Craft the very means for its
Exhumation. As I turn around I close
The door and shamble into dawn.

Run boy

let the wind
rush wish
to catch up
with your
motorised limbs

let the
sun set
falling want to
coo as
quick as
you can
race your
weary
smile

let the sky
and the
nighted blanket
have envy
of your
magnanimous
retreat

remember
the starry
eyes of
that boy
you
whispered
goodbyes
to
on his neck
like kisses
like
gentle breaths
like promises
the whiskered
kitten in
your heart
which purred
as he
held
your hand
so tight
you
could barely
stop the
wilted
smile
and
flooded
heartbeats from
drowning you
whole

he held
your hand
so
tight
you thought
he
wanted
to  
run too.

Nail
half crescent
imprints
of fossilised
hands
they hold you
you trace the scars
they hold you
and you
wish they
would keep
on holding on
as you
run.

Run boy
run into the sun
let the
memories
of open fields and
flower chains
and dotted kisses
trace your
heart with
strength
let yourself
run
until the
city walls are
snowflakes
against the
mountain
until your home
is only
a house
in your dreams
until he

until he is
only a shadow
on the
horizon
and you can
keep on
running
with his
words
on the backs
of your feet.

'love you.'

Run boy
so one day
you can
run on back
and

take him
with you.

Maxwell House jars
To punches traded for a planetary
Mars of all cleaved rock and desperation!!!

All sarcastic inspiration
Commemorates the deeding mobsters!!!

Hogger's mincing
Cahiers tinting
Grocery bag giveaways!!!

Make it tomorrow
Soldier
And thou might make it today!!!

Enjoy thy livings
Enjoy thy stay

For vacation is noones attire!!!!

Shelter in stormy lands
What is thy quilt?
Thou sheriff of sheen filth!!!!

Serene sessions
Cometh quickly and go,

Receiving to know one
In all and all in one!!!

Trigger fingers art ready to squeeze
Closer we gasp into the sun!!!

Earthly breeze
Middle earth ones!!!

How damning it is thou extorter....

Thou loiterer
Of pale grey cold nighted sweets!!!

Nose of fire
Deckage of wires
To fathomed Kodiak's
Of ink jets !!!

Wake up call hast finally sounded
Panther eye's wait to swindle!!!

Release knowledge
Release power of the toes
That fit in the sandal!!!

I don't dream, of Mahogany trees at 10:00 pm; beneath whose vast canopies of nighted green, I lay with them.

I don't dream, of sweet songs sang pursuant to savoured seconds stilled; as I acquainted your ears and neck, respectively... collectively to a poet's tongue and fangs. As we forged new fragments of much missed memories, upon our little hill.

I don't dream, of tight embrace, nor of your critus and aggrieved face; they are the choicest fruits of my regretful request: That you return home safe and nothing less.

I don't dream, of them; my every conscious thought and deed are but my surplus offering. O! How I long to give my two copper pieces to them. Perhaps four hours of supplication, might make me more than a friend.

It almost feels as though,
if I hold the words to my throat, the heat of my blood
will transfer itself through paper--through intentions--
until it rouses tragedy and plucks the frost from
each delicately chosen word.

It almost feels as though,
if I cradle him in my thoughts, the boy will learn what I already know
and run before history catches up with him.
He will run and cry out his grief and his fear and he will escape his spies, his responsibility, his head, his conscience, his ties, his ghost, his guilt.

But no man--no, boy--can outrun a demise like this when
he's tripping on the roots of the family tree and failure
has taken his father, his mother, his friends, his affection.

The only person helping him stand back up is merely a messenger.

Cast thy nighted color off,
sweet prince of Denmark.
Breathe once in
the warmth of my heart before a colder kind of
messenger comes to carry you away, no longer a son of any sort.

Or are you still?

silence is thickest
when two minds are full
of thought
hearts are full
While bottles are bottoms up
Instead of words
we speak through touch

Your skin like brail
spelling words of lust
My finger tips can't resist
to read every inch every rub

morning dew thaws out the nighted lust
leaving us
sobered up.